CHAPTER XIV.
CARLYLE.
The next morning, Cuthbert busied himself in obtaining extracts from registers. The proof he procured was very full and clear, establishing the legal as well as the moral certainty.
That day the family at Port Dundas were pursuing their ordinary employments with a greater hush and stillness about them than usual. Martha and Rose sat together, sewing in the parlour. They were both very silent—in the exhaustion of hopelessness, afraid to speak to each other of the one great subject which absorbed their thoughts. Agnes had gone with her baby in her arms to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Rodger, and was lingering there a little, willing to be delivered from herself; while Violet had carried out a little wondering pre-occupied heart into the midst of a juvenile assembly in front of the house, and was gradually awaking out of abstraction into vigorous play.
The prospect was very cheerful from the window. Yonder little Maggie McGillivray, with unfailing industry, clipped and sang at her mother’s door under the full sunshine of noon; and here, upon the pavement, the little form of Violet, poised on one foot, pursued the marble “pitcher” through the chalked “beds” necessary for the game, while her playmates stood round watching lest she should infringe its rules, and Mrs. McGarvie’s tawny truculent Tiger winked in the sunshine as he sat complacently looking on. The very din of traffic in the busy street was cheering and life-like; but the two sisters, sat with their little muslin curtain drawn, sick at heart.
At the window in the kitchen Miss Aggie Rodger stretched her considerable length upon the deal table, while the hapless idle Johnnie occupied his usual chair by the fireside, and Miss Jeanie in a dress a little, and only a little, better arranged than her sister, sat on the wooden stool near her, very prim and very busy. Miss Aggie had laid down her work, and from the table was making desperate lunges at the crowing baby.
In a dingy printed gown, girded round her waist by an apron professedly white, but as dingy as the print, and with a broad black ribbon tyeing down her widow’s cap, Mrs. Rodger stood conversing with the lodger. “This is Thursday,” said Agnes, “by the end of next week, Mrs. Rodger, I shall be ready with the rent.”
“Very weel, Mrs. Muir,” responded the widow, “what suits you will suit me. It’s a new thing to me, I assure you, to be needing to seek siller. When Archie was to the fore—and a guid man he was to me, and a guid father to the weans—I never ance thought of such a needcessity as this; but are maun submit to what’s imposed; and then there’s thae wearifu’ taxes, and gas, and water. I declare it’s enough to pit folk daft—nae suner ae body’s turned frae the door than anither chaps—it’s just an even down imposition.”
“Look at the pet—Luick, see! eh! ye wee rogue, will ye break my side comb,” cried Miss Aggie, shaking the baby with furious affection, from which the young mother shrunk a little.
“Dinna be sae wild, Aggie,” said her prim sister. “Ye’ll frighten the wean.”
“Never you fash your head, Jean. Are ye there, ye wee pet? Eh, if he hasna pitten his finger through yin o’ the holes!”
Miss Aggie hurriedly snatched up her work, and the little wife drew away the baby in alarm. “Has he done much harm,” asked Agnes, “give it me, and I will put it in again.”
“It’s nane the waur,” said the good-humoured hoyden, cutting out the injured “hole” with her scissors. “I’ll put it in with a stitch of point—it’s nae size. Jean’s at a new stitch, Mrs. Muir—did ye ever see it?”
“It’s rather a pretty thing,” said Miss Jeanie, exhibiting it with prim complacence. “I learned it from Beenie Ure, at the warehouse, and it’s no ill to do. I was thinking of coming ben, to show Miss Rose; but it’s no every body that Beenie would have learned it to.”
“Wha’s that at the outer door?” asked the idle brother, whose listless unoccupied life had made him quick to note all passing sounds.
“Losh me!” said Miss Aggie, looking up, “its Mr. Muir, and he’s in an awfu’ hurry.”
Agnes ran to open the door. It was indeed Harry, and the face of pale excitement which he turned upon her, struck the poor wife to the heart. Little Violet ran up the stair after him, with eager curiosity. There was a sullenness, quite unusual to it, on the colourless face of poor Harry. He passed his wife without saying a word.
“Are you ill? what brings you home at this time? what is the matter, Harry?” cried the terrified Agnes.
He only pressed before her into the sitting-room.
As Harry entered, with Agnes and little Violet close behind him, the two melancholy workers in the parlour, started in painful surprise. “Harry is ill!” exclaimed Rose, with the constant instinct of apology, as she threw down her work on the table.
“What now, Harry? what new misfortune has come upon us now?” asked the sterner voice of Martha.
“Harry, what is it? what ails you?” said poor Agnes, clinging to his arm.
He took off his hat, and began to press it between his hands. “Agnes, Martha,” said the young man with a husky dry voice, “it’s not my fault—not this time—I’ve lost my situation.”
The little wife uttered a low cry, and looked at him and the baby. Lost his situation! the sole means of getting them bread.
“What do you mean, Harry?” asked Martha.
The young man’s sullen, despairing eye glanced round them all. Then he flung his hat on the table, and threw himself into the arm-chair. “I mean that, that’s all. I’ve lost my situation.”
For a moment they stood still, looking in each other’s blank faces, as people do at the first stroke of a calamity; then Agnes put the baby into the arms of Rose, and herself glided round to the back of her husband’s chair. She could not bear to see him cast himself down so, and hide his face in his hands. Her own eyes were half blinded with tears, and her gentle heart failing; but however she might suffer herself, she could not see Harry so utterly cast down.
Violet stole again to the stool at his feet, and sat looking up in his face with the breathless interest of her years. Poor Agnes tried to draw away the hands from his face. He resisted her fretfully. Rose went softly about the room with the child, hushing its baby glee, and turning tearful eyes on Harry; but Martha stood, fixed as she had risen on his entrance, her hands firmly grasping the back of her chair, and her head bowed down.
The tears of poor Agnes were falling upon his clasped fingers. Hastily the unfortunate young man uncovered his face. “I suppose I shall have to sit by the fire like John Rodger, and let you be a slave for me,” he exclaimed bitterly, clasping his wife’s hands. Agnes could do nothing but weep and murmur “Harry! Harry!”
“I will work on the streets first—I will do anything,” said Harry, in hysteric excitement. “I am not broken down yet, Agnes, for all they say. I can work for you yet. I will be anything, I will do anything, rather than let want come to you.”
And the little wife wept over the hands that convulsively clasped her own, and could only sob again, “Oh, Harry, Harry!”
“Harry,” said Martha, “what have you done? Let us understand it clearly. Answer first one thing. Lift up your head, and answer me, Harry. Is the fault yours? Is it a misfortune or a sin?”
He did not meet her earnest, anxious eye; but he answered slowly, “The fault is not mine, Martha. I was, indeed, exasperated; but it was not me. I am free of this, Martha; it was no blame of mine.”
She looked at him with jealous scrutiny; she fancied there was a faltering in his voice, and that he dared not lift his eyes to meet her own, and the misery of doubt convulsed Martha’s heart. Could she believe him?
“If it is so,” she said, with a calmness which seemed hard and cold to Rose, “I see no reason you have to be so much cast down. Agnes, do not cry. This working on the street is quite an unnecessary addition to the shock Harry has given us.”
“If it is so!” cried Harry, with quick anger. “Martha, do you not believe me? will you not trust my word?”
“Be composed,” said Martha, herself sitting down with a hopeless composure quite unusual to her; “tell us what the cause is calmly, Harry. It is a great misfortune; but every misfortune is to be borne. Let us look at it without exaggeration; tell me the cause.”
He had worn her patience out, and the aspect her exhaustion took was that of extreme patience. It surprised and hushed them all. Rose laid the baby in his cradle, and stealthily took up her work. Agnes withdrew her hand from Harry’s grasp; even he himself wiped his damp brow, and sat erect in his chair.
“I went to-day to the Bank to get a cheque cashed,” he said, in his usual manner; “it was a small cheque, only fifty pounds, and I put the notes in my coat pocket. Everybody does it. I did in that respect just as I have always done; but I was robbed to-day—robbed of the whole sum.”
“What then?” said Martha, breathlessly.
“Of course I went at once and told Dick Buchanan. His father is not at home, and Dick took it upon him to reprove me for carelessness, and—various other things,” said Harry, with assumed bravado. “So we got to high words—I confess it, Martha. I was not inclined to submit to that from him, which I could scarcely bear from you. And the result was what I have told you—I gave up my situation, or rather he dismissed me.”
There was a dead silence, for Martha’s composure hushed the condolences which otherwise would have comforted poor Harry, and made him feel himself a martyr after all.
“What did young Buchanan blame you for?—not,” said Martha, a rapid flush covering her face as she looked at her brother, “not with any suspicion—not for this.”
He returned her look with one of honest and unfeigned indignation. “Martha!”
“I did not know,” said Martha hurriedly. “The lad is a coarse lad. I did not know what you meant. What did he blame you for, Harry?”
A guilty flush stole over Harry’s face. He sighed deeply. “For many things, Martha,” he said with simplicity, “for which you have blamed me often.”
The stern questioner was melted. It was some time before she could resume her inquiries. “And how did it happen? How did you lose the money, Harry?” said Rose.
“It was no such wonder,” answered Harry with a little impatience. “It is a thing that happens every day—at least many men have been robbed before me. They lie in wait about the banks, these fellows.”
“And what way did you put it into your pocket, Harry?” said Violet. “I would have held it in my hand.”
“Be quiet, Violet; what do you know about it?” exclaimed Harry angrily.
“And was it near the Bank you were robbed?” inquired Agnes.
Harry faltered a little. “Not very far from it.”
“And did nobody see the thief? Surely if it was done in the open street, somebody must have seen who did it,” said Rose.
Harry’s eyes were cast down. “No,” he muttered in a very low tone, “they know their business too well to let anybody see them.”
“Was it done in the street?” asked Martha quickly.
He faltered still more. “I don’t know—not exactly in the street, I think. I met the captain of one of our—of one of Buchanan’s ships; and I—I went with him to a place he was going to call at. I suppose it might be done about there.”
Poor Harry! his head was bowed down—his fingers were fumbling with the table-cover. He could not meet the eyes which were fixed so anxiously upon him.
A low groan came from Martha’s lips—it was hard to relinquish the comfort of believing that his besetting sin had no share in this misfortune—hard to have the courage quenched out of a heart, which could be buoyant, joyous, in the face of trials and dangers appointed by heaven, to be suffered and overcome—but who could do nothing against a weakness so inveterate and strong as this.
There was nothing more said for a time—they all felt this add a pang to their misfortune; but while Martha’s eyes were still fixed on the ground, and Rose and Agnes forbore to look at him, in delicate care for his humiliation, Harry had already lifted his head, and growing familiar with his position, forgot that there was in it any humiliation at all.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “what will be very hard upon us—very hard indeed—these monied men have hearts like the nether millstone. Agnes, I don’t know what you will do with your accounts. I have lost my quarter’s salary as well as my situation.”
The poor little wife looked at him aghast. She had been scheming already how she could get these accounts paid, and begin to “the opening” herself, to keep them afloat until Harry should hear of some other situation;—but this crowning calamity struck her dumb.
“They will hold me responsible for the whole fifty pounds,” said Harry, in a low voice. “I don’t think Mr. Buchanan himself would have kept back this that is owing me—this that I have worked for. I should not care so much for the whole debt,” said poor Harry with glistening eyes, “because it would be a spur to me to labour more strenuously, and I don’t doubt we might pay it off in a year or two—but to throw me on the world, and keep back this poor fifteen pounds—it is very cruel—to leave us without anything to depend on, until I can get another situation—it is very hard—but they do not know what it is to want five pounds, those prosperous men. Mr. Buchanan himself would never have done it—and to think that Dick should turn upon me!”
“It is well,” said Martha harshly, “I am pleased that he has kept this money—how we are to do I cannot tell—but I would not have had you take it, Harry. What you have lost was theirs, and we must make it up. Some way or other we will struggle through, and it is far better that you did not become further indebted to them by receiving this.”
Harsh as her tone was, it was not blame—poor Harry’s sanguine spirit rose. He could take some comfort from the bitter pride that would rather descend to the very depths of poverty than have such a debt as this. The galling burden seemed for the moment to withdraw Martha’s thoughts from the more-enduring misery, the weakness that plunged him into so many misfortunes.
But Agnes, sadly considering how to satisfy the poor widow, Mrs. Rodger, who could not do without her money, and how to apologise to butcher, baker, and grocer,—could take no comfort;—darkly the cloud of grave care settled down upon the soft young features. “But what will I do with Mrs. Rodger,” said Agnes, “and Waters, and Mr. Fleming—oh Martha!”
“I will speak to them myself,” said Martha, compressing her lips painfully. “You shall not be subjected to this, Agnes—I will speak to them myself.”
“And Mrs. McGarvie,” said Agnes, “I might have done the things myself if I had only known—and Mrs. Rodger.”
“Mrs. Rodger must be paid,” said Martha. “I am going to the warehouse to-day—we must see—we must think about it all, Agnes.”
But they made no reference to Harry. Rose, who had said nothing all this time, was already working very rapidly, pausing for an instant sometimes to look round upon them with affectionate wistfulness, but scarcely slackening the speed of her needle even then; there was such occasion for labour now, as there had never been before.
Poor Harry! He sat in silence, and heard them discuss those sad economics—he saw that they made no reference to him; and the bitterness of having lost the confidence of those whose strong and deep affection could not be doubted, even by the most morbid pride, smote him to the heart. A momentary perception of his position disclosed itself to Harry, and with the instant spring of his elastic temperament, he felt that to perceive was to correct, and that the power lay with himself to recover all that he had lost. With a sudden start he turned to his wife and his sister.
“Agnes!—Martha!—why do you look so miserable? I will get another situation. We may be better yet than we ever were before.”
“And so we may,” said Martha, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and so we may—we will always hope and look for the best.”
Her voice sounded like a knell. Agnes, who was not quick to discover shades of implied meaning, brightened at the words—but Rose, who deprecated and softened in other cases, could oppose nothing to this. It made herself sick and hopeless—for worse than all impatience or harshness was this conscious yielding to fruitless and false hope, as one yields to a fretful child.